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<title>Dear Mrs. Somers by HolyRavioli</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201347">Dear Mrs. Somers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyRavioli/pseuds/HolyRavioli'>HolyRavioli</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood Drinking, Character Death, Gen, Hemochromatosis, Murder, Plots, Sisterly Love, Vampire Bites, Vampires, sanguinarian, vampire community</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:40:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,533</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyRavioli/pseuds/HolyRavioli</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She planted herself in front of me and thrusted a box out right in my face.<br/>“You can have it.”<br/>I look up, and see a little box sparkling in the fluorescent lights, it looked beautiful. Nothing else sparkles in these harsh fluorescent lights; they glare.<br/>“You’re just gonna give it to me?”<br/>“Yeah, it’s yours.”<br/>I snatch it and finger the pocket intended for a missing gem.<br/>“Thanks.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dear Mrs. Somers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A story I wrote for this sub-cultures investigation, for school, ehehehe.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A dagger laid on the ground, a body next to it.<br/>
Already a pool of liquid was forming next to the body. The liquid- the juice of life itself- flows slowly, languidly.<br/>
The color looks so rich in the in the dimly lit room, it could have been chocolate.<br/>
Hush, don’t tell them who was here.</p><p> </p><p>	The symptoms were all passed off as common life happenings. Pale skin color, an atypical grey, fatigue, weight loss, foggy memory. These things were hard to notice in a woman well into her forties that lived on her own.<br/>
Mom and I, we didn’t visit much.<br/>
Mom didn’t because of the shame, I didn’t because, at that moment, my own life desired all the time and energy from me. Running me to the bare strips.<br/>
And the doctors, they don’t understand. They understand what happened- hemochromatosis treated too late- but they can’t understand why it happened. I don’t wait to listen.<br/>
Because I know the why.</p><p> </p><p>	She, she was such a lovely person. I could probably find a truckful of people who didn’t agree, but to me, she was plain lovely.<br/>
She was the sun-bleached type, the play-at-the-roulette wheel type. She was the cheated and wrung out kind, the anger flares fiery kind.<br/>
She was there between the soiled shirt, between me and father’s raised hand.<br/>
And it’s true that she forgot about my ninth, eleventh, thirteenth, and fourteenth birthdays, but she was there with a cake on my fifteenth one.<br/>
Dad came and went as he wished, which was less often on his coherent days, and more often on the blundering home and yelling, us cowering under the covers days. Clinging on to each other like wet tissue pieces. Try to isolate one piece, and the whole thing tears. Back then, I thought it was normal, I thought that this was how the world was like. She didn’t want to tell me, so she lied.<br/>
Mom was out doing worse things.<br/>
She was a lawyer.<br/>
And me? I was there spending my childhood in an empty home, using the same toothbrush until half the fibers fell out, eating lunch and hating how hungry I was, hating eating the same thing over and over.<br/>
Over and over, that was my childhood, these horrible things happening over and over.<br/>
Trash, trash, all trash. Bight pieces of plastic buried underneath the grime, muck, and mold. Spilling, overflowing, uncontained, uncontainable, out, out, out onto the street.<br/>
And she was there for all of it.</p><p> </p><p>It was some long-passed Friday when I visited her.<br/>
The air swirled, but the sky was stony-faced.<br/>
Such endless contraries.<br/>
The apartment was downtown, so I decided to walk. I liked walking, its time consuming, and I really didn’t need more time on my hands, (the less the time, the less the procrastination required).<br/>
And I’m moving up the narrow staircase, I’m knocking on the door, she opens the door.<br/>
“Hi,” she smiles.<br/>
“Hi, Abby,” I say back. It’s been so long since I last saw her. The guilt creeps up, just a little.<br/>
“It’s been so long since I last saw you.” I paused, unsure of what to say, how to express what I wanted to tell her.<br/>
“But” I picked back up “I’ve been busy, and I know I said that we could go to get coffee last Monday, but I couldn’t go, because you know how much wild jungle-bred creatures the children are when their father isn’t home, those little tats, and my boss was being particularly jerky again, he wouldn’t let me get off at my usual time because I was talking on the phone to Brian for ten minutes. Ten minutes! And,” I realize I’m rambling badly “… and mom says she misses you.” I lied. I haven’t talked to mom in a month, “I... just… come and visit sometimes alright?”<br/>
“I miss her too,” and I can tell she didn’t lie.<br/>
“But I-”<br/>
When she talks, I can see that there’s something wrong with her teeth.<br/>
“-don’t understand why she can’t come visit-”<br/>
There! Those white, elongated canines again.<br/>
“-me. It’s-”<br/>
Alright, those are definitely fangs.<br/>
“-not like her to avoid me.”<br/>
Why does she have fangs? Why is mom avoiding her? I’ll figure it out. It’s not the weirdest thing that has happened to, or rather, because of her, but it’s not even Halloween yet.<br/>
“Hm, she’s probably not avoiding you. You know how mom gets sometimes- she’s forgetful, tearful, and sometimes things from the past catch up with her. It’s probably not your fault.” We move to sit on her sofa. Her apartment is a bit chaotic right now. There are knickknacks crowding the coffee table, there’s a stack of pamphlets, most likely environmental stuffs, and I believe I spy a lawnmower behind the air conditioner. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s suddenly got a small turf on her balcony just in complementation of the lawnmower.<br/>
It really wasn’t this helter-skelter when I came last time. Guess she grew out of the simplism lifestyle.<br/>
“Oh, you think so? Well, that does relieve me so.” Is she being sarcastic? I can’t really tell. There’s a wine stain on the sofa.<br/>
“Anyways, enough about mom! How’s life been treating you?” I say. Those fangs are really distracting.<br/>
We talk for a while about nearly anything and everything comes in mind. She’s avoiding talking about the fangs on purpose, my mouth-staring wasn’t exactly subtle.<br/>
It was when she left for a tea refill that a man came in. He looked of average height, had a head of bronze curls and skin the color of honey. Since he entered the apartment with a key, I decided that he’s probably relatively harmless. He startles when he sees me on the sofa.<br/>
“Oh. You must be the sister. I’ve seen photos of you.”<br/>
When he starts talking something occurs to me, something I failed to notice due to the darkness of the entryway.<br/>
The man was wearing a cape. It’s not even Halloween yet!<br/>
Then she comes bustling back into the room and introductions ensue. It was awkward, the handshaking and “nice to meet yous” succeeded at amplifying the awkwardness till the atmosphere became buttery awkward.<br/>
And then I decided to just ask the question ricocheting around in the little cubic centimeters of mine. The conversation went a bit like this.<br/>
Me: “Why do you have fangs?”<br/>
Her: “I’m a vampire.”<br/>
Me: “Oh. What.”<br/>
Me: “Like an actual vampire?”<br/>
Her: “Yeah”<br/>
Me: “What the heck”<br/>
(I said it went a bit like this, hence the exact words were somewhat more vulgar)<br/>
Her: “Don’t worry, it’s not genetic”<br/>
Me: “huh wow, phew, you scared me. NOT. I’m not worried about-”<br/>
Her: “Um so now that’s out of th-”<br/>
Me: “Seriously, why do you do these kinds of things? I can’t believe. I mean, like, wait. Oh my god, exactly how vampirish are you? Why-”<br/>
Her: “So, I was just saying, Brenen is here to pick me up. We’re going on a date.”<br/>
Me: “Sissy, you aren’t going to just-”<br/>
Her: “Let's meet up later, catch up, talk and stuff later, okay?”<br/>
Me: “Sure.”<br/>
Then we all left at the same time, cramming through the doorway, the buttery awkwardness feeling as if it had congealed and sealed us in it.</p><p> </p><p>I did catch on a thing or two about vampirism. Between the two of them, I probably knew more “vampires” than most other people.<br/>
The internet also knew a lot about these vampires. Apparently, there’s a whole community. They’re known as the VC (the Vampire Community).</p><p>Types of Vampires:</p><p> </p><p>1.	The scholars- are interested in the vampires. could be writers. just general vampire-obsessed ppl.<br/>
2.	The roleplayers- main focus, whole thing revolves around game Vampire: the Masquerade. a large group<br/>
3.	The living vampires- aka lyfestylers. also large group, dress up, gets fangs. go to vamp parties. don’t actually think they’re vamps, just think is cool.<br/>
4.	The living vamps- occultist group. main purpose of vampirism in the belief of eternal life. immortality.<br/>
5.	The real vampires- media attention group, believe are real vamps. 2 kinds:<br/>
1.	The psychic vamps-<br/>
	Traditional psychic- are truly horrible ppl. “drains” ppl of their energy &amp; emotions just by being near. makes you feel horrible. (don’t rlly understand why bullies are considered vamps).<br/>
	Ethical psychic- are aware that they “drain”ppl’s energy. are aware possessing some kind of energy deficiency. try not to be horrible ppl.<br/>
2.	The saguinarians- scary, bad, foolish. drink their own, others, animals’ blood (depends on the vamp). dangerous to themselves more than to the donors.<br/>
6.	The black swans- are generally ppl supportive of the vamps, could be moms, friends, family members, but aren’t one themselves. a donner is also considered a black swan.</p><p> </p><p>I opened my drawer, fishing for a highlighter. There were some key ideas I wanted to accentuate. My hand closes around a box, a little jewelry box. I bring it out. I dust it off.<br/>
It’s a beautifully engraved little thing. On the metallic lid a scene depicts a clearing with two peacocks facing each other, their necks craned. Their tails follow the curvature of the rotund container, there are fake gems for eyes. One was missing even before she gave it to me.<br/>
I had forgotten it was there in the first place.<br/>
“I got you something!” She said, coming home from school, or a party. You never know. I wasn’t really interested.<br/>
She planted herself in front of me and handed me the box.<br/>
“You can have it.”<br/>
I look up, and see a little box sparkling in the fluorescent lights, it looked beautiful. Nothing else sparkles in these harsh fluorescent lights, they glare instead.<br/>
“You’re just gonna give it to me?”<br/>
“Yeah, it’s yours.”<br/>
I snatch it and finger the pocket intended for a missing gem.<br/>
“Thanks.”<br/>
She left then, leaving me alone in the house.<br/>
Later, I find out that the sole reason she had such a beautiful piece of jewelry in the first place was that her (then) boyfriend stole it from this rich guy’s house he was working at.<br/>
He freaked out when the guy confronted him about it. He then gave it to my sister as a token of love. My sister gave it to me.<br/>
Maybe it was because of the breakup the following week, but really, my sister isn’t the sentimental kind that would pass up the opportunity to acquire something fancy. God knows how scarcely we get frivolous things. She genuinely wanted me to have it.<br/>
Nobody’s genuinely wanted me to have anything.<br/>
Oh, of course, dad has genuinely wanted me to get a beating before.<br/>
But we shared that burden. We shared all the burdens the world threw at us.<br/>
She…<br/>
Suddenly I’m plunged into an icy lake of despair, and it tastes of something bitter. The cold pin-pricked my body, and I violently wrench myself away from it. Away from these waters deep and turbulent.<br/>
In that moment, I felt myself falling apart, unraveling, my body and soul no longer able to hold itself together anymore. I was a jigsaw puzzle that someone tried to lift up by a corner, and now the world is witnessing the shambles that is left of me.<br/>
The shambles she left me in.<br/>
The shambles I want to leave whoever is responsible for this in, I realized.<br/>
And why not? I could do this. Avenge her.<br/>
Make them bleed.<br/>
If only she had bled.<br/>
Oh, if only she could have bled.<br/>
What irony.</p><p> </p><p>It was her boyfriend who converted her.<br/>
Brenen. Living on, getting away scot-free.<br/>
I choke on the mere thought. I’ve never experienced hatred like this.<br/>
This curling feeling, this shady monster residing in the pits of my stomach. It makes my face contort; I can feel that my fingers have become claws. I can feel the power of it, the things my hatred can urge me on and do. This little monster is pulling the strings, and I don’t care anymore.<br/>
The little monster told me to make a plan. I did.<br/>
Brenen is one of the Sanguinarians. The thing my sister was. These Sangs drink blood. Their own blood, other human’s blood, animal blood, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know for a fact that Brenen has a donner. The Sangs call them ‘donners’, they call themselves Black Swans. Black Swans are basically a human being that is aware of the risks, have complete consent, and regularly gives blood to the Sangs.<br/>
I read on a website that interviewed come doners that some give up 100ml of blood per day. They can be friends, people met on websites specifically for these reasons, or people who a Sang is in a relationship with.<br/>
Some do it for because it feels “liberating”, some do it in exchange for money. Some do it out of compassion. Most Sanguinarians consume blood purely out of psychological reasons and are left feeling weak, dizzy, lethargic, and generally sick in 1234 different ways without blood. Some are medical vampires. These vampires have some kind of iron deficiency and believe that drinking is the easiest path to recovery.<br/>
The thing is, these donors, and this whole practice is extremely safe. The vampires do a lot of research on this topic. It’s safe for the donors. It’s Sanguinarians themselves that are endangered. One notable and recent example…<br/>
I won’t… I will not dwell on her; this is more pressing, (even though there is nothing, nothing more important than her).<br/>
The donors, though. They always understand the risks. They will eat food high in Vitamins, especially vitamin C, such as lean meats. When one is desperate, there are also drugs that can help raise your blood pressure rapidly. There has been next to zero cases in which a donor perishes from these practices.<br/>
Which is something I find very problematic. See, my sister, she died because of these practices, and you know, nothing in this has died for my sister.<br/>
Brenen is going to get attacked by his donor, someone he met on the internet, low on luck and needing money. A nobody. And what are the reasons for this man to attack him? Brenen was trying to suck him dry! How is this not cannibalism? Is it not the same thing? The devouring of flesh, the devouring of blood, the essence of human life. Pain doesn’t factor in, consent doesn’t either, when stripped down to its bare bones, it is still the taking of human life.<br/>
Oh, the headlines are going to be big.</p><p> </p><p>Scene:<br/>
A few days after Brenen MacKeigan makes headlines for the attacking and murder of his human donor.<br/>
At the house of Mrs. Somers.</p><p>An envelope rests unopened in the mailbox. (The habitant of the house abstains from using electronic mail). On the front, it states in cursive the letter was sent from St. Paul’s Hospital. It reads as follows:<br/>
Dear Mrs. Somers,<br/>
Below is the report on the death of your daughter, Abigail Somers.</p><p>------      ------      ------      ------      ------       ------      ------      ------      ------      ------</p><p>Name: Abigail Somers<br/>
Age: 45<br/>
Sex: Female<br/>
Cause of death: Hereditary hemochromatosis.<br/>
If the symptoms were spotted earlier, death would have been extremely unlikely…</p><p>------      ------      ------      ------      ------       ------      ------      ------      ------      ------</p><p>Our deepest condolences, St. Paul’s.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm pretty sure that it's abundantly clear that I cannot format for ish, I'm so confused.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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